


A Darker Shade of Magic

by TheEagleGirl



Series: Shades of Magic [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, In which they fuck up, M/M, Magician!Gendry, Shades of Magic, Thief!Arya, and almost ruin the universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 07:39:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11550597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: Gendry is one of the two most powerful magicians in existence. He is of a dying breed. He is an Antari, one of the few magicians who can travel between worlds.Apparently, though, even he can fall victim to a pickpocket.(Arya and Gendry embark on shenanigans that span not one, not two, but FOUR worlds.)





	A Darker Shade of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Based on V.E. Shwab's amazing series, Shades of Magic. Those books are so good that I read all three in three days and have been compelled to write an AU where Gendry is Kell Maresh and Arya is Lila Bard. 
> 
> Background: There are four universes, with four Londons, each with a varying degree of magic. Our world is the Grey World, where there is no magic, where Arya is from. The only people who can travel between these worlds are the Antari (blood magicians) and there are only two left; Gendry, from Red London, and Sandor Clegane, from White London.
> 
> Takes place in 1825.

When Gendry stepped into the streets of Grey London, the first thing he did was switch his coat.

His coat had many sides, you see. Most had only the one, and some, unexpectedly, had two if you flipped it. Gendry’s coat was special, though, and had more sides than he’d been able to count. Just when he thought he’d found them all, another side would appear, to his delight.

Gendry’s coat, after all, was magic.

In Red London, Gendry’s London, his coat was unexpected, but not especially special. Red London was full of magic, full of interestingly charmed objects. If no one quite had a coat like Gendry’s, they had other things, like instruments that played just the tune to raise one’s spirits, or a monocle that could see through walls once placed over the wearer’s eyes.

While in Red London, Gendry often wore his favorite side of the coat, a beautiful crimson thing that reached just above his knees. Here in Grey London, the world without magic, the coat called too much attention to him, especially in the slum that Gendry stepped into. That was fine. He simply shrugged the coat off, turned it inside out a few times until he found a duster that was shabby enough for the occasion.

Gendry could feel himself change once he’d gotten the coat ‘round his shoulders. His posture lowered to a lazy slump, and his hair fell back into his left eye. Couldn’t have anyone looking too hard.

Windsor was a bloody drafty palace, and Gendry was quite glad he’d left the Grey King, King Jon Arryn III, for the streets once he’d delivered _his_ king’s letter. He’d never liked Windsor, and the chilly streets of Grey London weren’t too bad once he bought a steaming cup of cider from a street vendor.

He had business here, his small dealings that if King Rhaegar knew about, Gendry wouldn’t be allowed into Grey London again. He was the only _Antari_ —blood magician able to travel between worlds— in the Red World. Gendry was of a dying breed, one of two left, but Sandor Clegane in White London was no friend of theirs. Gendry relished this freedom King Rhaegar allowed him, and only because his travels were neessary to the Red Throne. Smuggling between worlds was forbidden, though. He had to conduct his business quietly, so he could be allowed to travel between all the Londons .

Grey London. The city where magic had died.

Red London. The city where magic thrived.

White London. The city where magic was enslaved.

And Black London.

Gendry had never been to Black London. He never would. No one in the Black world was left alive. They had let magic overwhelm their world, like a fire that raged and consumed everything in its path.

 

* * *

 

 

There were two kinds of people in Grey London that seeked out Gendry's services; Collectors and Enthusiasts. Collectors simply traded with him because they liked curious things. Enthusiasts traded because they wanted to know more about magic. Of the two, Gendry would rather the Collectors any day.

He met the Enthusiast in the Grey Water Pub. The woman was clearly of high stock, though she had tried to disguise herself under a dark wool coat and hat. Not every coat hid things as well as Gendry’s did, though, and he spotted her from across the room.

Others did as well, he could see. Not many women with skin that clear and eyes that trusting came to the Grey Water Pub.

He sat across from her.

“That seat is taken, sir,” she begins, her voice clear as a bell. Gendry feels again that she does not belong here.

He pushes up his hair and lets her see his black eye. It is a darkness that fills the whole eye, from lid to lid, startling against his pale skin, startling even more so when one took in his other eye, a normal blue.

“It is taken,” Gendry says, settling in, “by me.”

The lady’s eyes have widened so much that Gendry almost smiles. She gapes at him, drawing attention, so he pushes the hair back over his eye.

“I—” she stammers, before her composure returns. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”

“Gendry,” he says with a flourish and a mock bow. It’s half-hearted and nearly clumsy, what with him being seated. “Your name?”

“Margaery,” the lady says, nearly distractedly. “Do you have it?”

Gendry raises a brow. He’s never failed to deliver on a trade. He has to take off his coat to find the red side, which is where he’s stashed the box, and can feel Margaery’s eyes on him the whole time. When he turns back, she is nearly shaking with excitement.

“Good lord,” she breathes, staring at the coat. “That’s magic.”

Gendry almost laughs at her childlike delight. He sets the box on the table and with a click it springs open. “It’s an element set,” he says. “Children use it to practice, see what element they have an affinity for.”

Margaery marvels over it, the bone in the center, the oil in the fire tray, the water in its bowl, the patch of earth and empty air in the last two compartments. She shakes it, and claps in surprise when the water and oil do not spill, or even slosh around.

“It’s amazing,” she says, laughter bubbling in her throat. “Can you teach me?”

Gendry doesn’t understand at first. “Magic?” he says finally, leaning back. “There is no magic in this world.”

Margaery leans forward, and suddenly, he can see it where her coat falls open. A rune, drawn childishly, over her throat, meant to bind magic to the user. It’s the wrong rune, but Gendry frowns at it. How had she gotten that symbol?

Damn Enthusiasts.

“I have magic,” she insists, eyes bright. “I do, I know I do.”

Gendry’s eyes, the black and the blue one, both wary. “You don’t.” He sits up, straightens his back. “Tell you what,” he says, “if you can move an element, any of the elements, I’ll teach you magic.”

She looks at him, raising a brow, clearly not believing him.

“Pick one,” Gendry gestures to the element set.

Margaery regards the set, hesitant, and points wordlessly to the water. Good, Gendry thinks. She wouldn’t have gotten far with bone, and fire was difficult to light.

She stares at the water, mumbling under her breath. Gendry wants to tell her not to bother. Only Antari wield blood magic through words. It isn’t words that make the magic, but power. And there is no power in Grey London.

The water ripples, to his amazement, but Gendry thinks it does so because of Margaery’s arms move on the table. After a minute, she sighs and leans back.

Gendry puts his hands on the table. “What do you have for me?”

She reaches into her satchel and brings it out. A music box.

There are such things in Red London, but Gendry is the first to admit that here, in a world without magic, humans were capable of creating things far more magical when they worked for it. The music box was lovingly carved, and he could see the tiny gears within. He touched the side of the box.

“Do you want to play it?” Margaery asks, voice soft.

“Not here,” he says, and stands. She watches him, still seated.

“I am magic,” she tells him, her voice filled with a vulnerable uncertainty that hadn't been there before. It’s enough to make Gendry stop, turn to her. She looks small, and she’s holding the element set tightly.

Gendry sighs.

“Aren’t we all?”

 

* * *

 

 

Arya Stark was made to be a pirate.

She has never been on a boat that wasn’t docked, but she knows this in her soul. She was meant to roam the seas, sword in one hand, pistol in the other. Every time the King’s Navy docked, Arya was the first to slip among them in the pubs, listening for talk of the world outside.

She was meant to be a pirate. But until then, thief would do.

With her cap low and her hair newly trimmed, Arya walks down the streets of London with a swagger in her step. More than once, a constable asked her for a light, and Arya makes sure to keep her voice low enough that they wouldn’t tell she was a girl. She doesn’t smoke the pipe in her hand, just brings it to her lips and down, and offers ladies a hand down from their carriages, smiles at gentlemen who she brushes in the streets.

No one expects a pickpocket here, with their society ladies walking about, with their young men and their elegant canes and their polished shoes. All the thieves are in the bad parts of London, are they not? They can’t come _here_ , can they?

God, Arya thinks people are stupid to believe they were truly safe anywhere, safe from the likes of her. But she smiles at the gents, gives the ladies rakish grins, and walks among them.

By the end of the night, her pockets are heavy, and she rubs her new compass between her fingers. It’s silver, engraved, and Arya’s new favorite thing.

Arya strolls aimlessly for a bit, without thinking where she’s letting her feet take her until it’s too late. When she looks up, she scowls.

The Grey Water Pub.

Arya hasn’t stepped foot in here in over a year, after telling Howland just how little he means to her. She’d given him an ugly grin to keep herself from crying, and told him that Arya Stark didn’t need anyone, especially not him. But Arya is drawn to this place, always has been, and finds herself walking past it more than she'd like to admit.

“Arya,” a voice says, and it’s Jojen, Howland’s youngest. He stares at her from the steps, muck bucket still in his hands, poised to throw it in the gutter.

Arya buries her mortification at being caught, and gives Jojen a smile. It’s pained, and comes across as more of a grimace.

“Hiya, Jo.”

He puts down the bucket just in time, because a women leaving the pub barrels into him. Anywhere else, this woman would’ve been a mark for Arya, but she remembers what happened when she last stole at the Grey Water.

“Sorry,” the woman apologizes smoothly, clutching a small box to her chest before hurrying away. Arya feels a pang of lost opportunity, and almost follows, but forces herself to stand still.

Jojen wipes his hands on his trousers and regards Arya. “You here to stay?” He asks, his green eyes wary.

Arya hasn’t even thought of that. She doesn’t have a place tonight. Lommy’s is full, and she’d been planning on looking by the docks, but…

Behind Jojen, she can see Howland at the bar. He’s looking at them, pouring a glass before handing it off to Meera, and Arya feels a pang of guilt.

“For tonight, yeah,” Arya says, all false bravado. “I’ve got the coin.”

Jojen waves it away. “We know you’re good for it, Arya.” He pauses, and looks her in the eyes. “No stealing while you’re here.”

Arya gives a careless shrug. “I don’t shit where I eat,” is all she says.

Jojen steps inside, away from Arya. He’s left the door open, though, so she follows in.

 

* * *

 

Queen Elia takes the letter Gendry’s brought from Grey London, from King Jon Arryn, and puts it down so she can embrace him.

“You smell like smoke,” she says, laughing.

“That’s what Grey London smells like,” he tells her. “Whenever I go there, the king tells me I smell like roses.” She lets go, and leads him to the breakfast table. King Rhaegar and Aegon are already seated, though Aegon looks more asleep than awake.

“We’ve got a letter for White London. Sandor came earlier, but left before I could reply,” Rhaegar tells him, spearing a pear with his fork. “When you’ve eaten, you’ll carry my letter.”

Gendry doesn’t need to be told to eat twice. He heaps his plate full of cheeses and bread.

Aegon has a purpling mark on his neck, and Gendry shoots him a pointed look. Aegon _almost_ blushes, but it seems he’s too tired to defend himself. It seems that Edric Dayne spent the night. Aegon, unlike his father, a powerful fire magician, and his mother, an earth magician, had no affinity at all, rare in this world. Gendry loved Aegon like a brother, though, even when he was nonresponsive and sluggish.

Gendry has lived with the royal family for his whole life. It’s all he can remember. That terrifies him, sometimes, when he traces the scar on his arm, the leftovers of memory magic that wiped his memories of everything before he came to live with them. He doesn’t think about it often, his mark, his loss of whatever it is that came before. But then he looks at the king and queen, who have accepted him as a son, who have kept him with them at all times… and he knows. He knows who ordered that spell cast on him.

He _knows_.

They are all the family he has now.

 

* * *

 

 

White London shakes Gendry to his core.

If he’d diminished himself in Grey London, Gendry does the opposite here. He sweeps his hair from his black eye, straightens his back, wears his most imposing red coat. He lets his magic fill the air, enough to threaten those stupid, desperate, _hungry_ enough to approach. The people of White London fought for magic, bound it to themselves by mutilation, and killed for it. Gendry makes it known, when he comes here, that he is the most powerful magician they will ever meet, and it is not worth the fight.

Everything in White London is dead. There are no birds. There is no grass. It is silent, coated in a grainy white dust, and Gendry can feel the hunger thrumming in the air.

When he arrives at the castle, Sandor Clegane is waiting.

When Gendry had been a child, he came here for the first time. At twelve, he’d been an arrogant child, too arrogant to understand the dangers of White London. They had been ruled by a different king then, and Sandor’s face with his one black eye and one brown had been smooth, unburned. Between one visit and the next, though, everything had changed. Now Sandor was burned, the twins ruled White London, and Gendry was terrified of them all.

“Jaime or Cersei?” Sandor asked.

“Cersei,” Gendry decided, hoping he chose well. Sandor’s face didn’t change, didn’t give Gendry any indication if his choice was wise or not. He simply led Gendry through the castle, to the throne room.

Cersei was as white as her throne, all the color seeped from her skin, her pale green eyes sharp enough to cut Gendry where he stood. The veins in her hands stood out darkly, the mark of magic being overused.

“You have the response.” Her voice was cool.

She never asked. She knew he did.

Slowly, Gendry approached the throne. In Red London, the throne room was full of warmth, and people. It was cold here, bone-cold, and all the guards were blank faced, under Jaime’s control.

He held out the letter.

Cersei grabbed his wrist, and a burning sensation ripped through Gendry’s arm. He wrenched it backwards, dropping the letter, and had to stop himself from casting defensive magic at her.

“Touchy boy,” Cersei tutted, and jerked her head to the letter. “Sandor.”

Sandor, moving slowly, knelt to pick it up. His eyes were full of fire when he turned back to Gendry.

“We have your response,” Cersei tells Gendry, her eyes studying him in a way that makes his skin crawl. “You may go.”

“Wait,” a voice says, just as Gendry’s allowed himself to feel some relief. Cersei’s twin, Jaime, has entered the throne room. He is just as beautiful and cold as his sister, and although his veins do not stand out as much as hers, Gendry knows his magic is just as deadly. When Gendry looks down, he sees blood on Jaime’s shoes. He swallows.

He hands Gendry a small parcel, one that fits snugly in his palm. “For you,” he says. “We know how you like to collect things.”

Gendry stiffens.

“Take it,” Jaime insists. “A gift. For all your years of service. As a messenger.”

“I don’t need gifts.” _From you_ goes unsaid.

Even as he says it, his hand tightens about the parcel. He can feel the magic of the object within through the paper.

“Are you sure?” Cersei says, from her throne. “We have a feeling you’ll like this gift, especially once your king sees it.”

“What is it?” Gendry asks. He doesn’t much care. He’s going to throw this to the ground the moment he leaves the castle.

That is, until he hears Jaime say, “A piece of Black London.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Gendry returns to Red London, he tears open the paper. Nothing has ever left Black London. As an Antari, Gendry can travel between the realms, but only if he has a token from the place he’s going to. He’s got an English penny, a Westerosi dragon from his London, and a Lannister coin from White London. He has never held anything from the Black London.

It’s a stone. It’s a black stone. From Gendry’s spot on his bed, he can feel the power eminating from it.

Why would the twins give this to him? They hoarded power, they captured it. Why would they give this to him freely?

There's only one reason. They wanted him to bring the stone to Red London, and in his panic, he'd done what they wanted.

Gendry begins to shake when Aegon knocks on his door.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon asks, when he sees Gendry’s stricken expression.

“I made a mistake,” Gendry forces out, stops from reaching to hold the stone again. “The Lannister twins gave me something to bring back. I didn’t mean—”

Aegon’s face drops, then hardens. He's the only one who knows about Gendry's trades, and Gendry knows that he does not approve. “Smuggling between Londons is _forbidden_ , Gendry. You know I haven’t told my father yet, but you can’t—”

Before Aegon can finish reprimanding him, Gendry bursts out, “It’s from Black London!”

Aegon makes a small choking sound. “Black London?” He repeats, almost stuttering. “You let them give you something from _Black London?”_

“I have to get rid of it,” Gendry says. “I can feel its power from here.”

Aegon has never had magic. When Gendry looks back at his prince, his best friend, he sees puzzlement.

“It has magic?” Aegon asks, voice soft. “The magic in that world destroyed it, Gendry. If it's left here...” he trails off, white faced.

Gendry nods. The power reaches out to him, beckoning.

“Don’t get rid of it here,” Aegon commands. “Take it to Grey London. There’s no magic there. It won’t do any harm.”

But he doesn’t sound sure.

Gendry stands, stiffly. He switches his coat to the scrappy duster he reserves for Grey London, and rewraps the stone, shoves it in his pocket. “I’ll be back soon,” he says, pulling out the coin from Grey London.

Aegon nods. He looks terrified, and Gendry wants to yell at himself—how could he bring it _here?_

Gendry pulls out his knife and nicks his hand. Blood wells up, and he closes his eyes. The magic thrums through him. “As Travars,” Gendry whispers— _Travel—_ and he is gone.

 

* * *

 

When Arya sees a dazed man in the streets, it’s almost as if he's _begging_ to be robbed blind. So when she sees the man in the shabby brown coat, but with sharp clothes underneath, she sees a mark. His hair is hanging in his eyes, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t see Arya’s hand darting into his pockets. She comes out with a handful of coins and something wrapped. A ring, maybe, or some jewelry? It doesn’t matter. She’ll check it later.

The man walks on, oblivious, too wrapped in some crisis. Arya chuckles and pockets the coins, fingers the wrapped bit. It’s warm, almost. She doesn’t wonder about it again, but holds it loosely in her pocket.

She spills her day’s catch on her bed, later, in the Grey Water. There’s a bracelet, coins, and one switchblade that Arya pockets with a grin. But from her other pocket, the one with the wrapped thing, there’s a red coin of the likes she’s never seen before. When Arya puts it to her teeth for a bite—to test the metal—she catches a whiff.

Roses.

She pulls the paper off the wrapped object. It’s a smooth black stone, and it fits into Arya’s palm. There’s a feeling buzzing at the edge of her mind, and when she drops it, the feeling disappears.

Curious, Arya touches the stone again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, please check out the Shades of Magic series! It's an awesome book with colorful characters and great world building. My story does *not* do it justice. 
> 
> Please read, comment, review! What do you think of the setting? I didn't keep all the details the same as the book, but I kept it very close. As we go on, though, it will continue to diverge. I hope you continue to enjoy!
> 
> If you guys have any questions (since I know not everyone has read the book) please let me know below and I'll try to answer them.


End file.
